


Only Write By The Moon

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Consensual Somnophilia, Crying, Established Relationship, Forced Orgasm, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post Orgasm Play, Sex Toys, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 17:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "He’s beside Harry, but he’s not with him. He’s not joining in, this isn’t the two of them getting Harry off together. This is Harry with an audience."Harry's desparate while Louis sleeps.





	Only Write By The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Everything included is entirely consensual.

If Louis has to leave Harry on his own around the house for the day, Harry would always prefer it to be for a photoshoot. Louis doesn’t come home quite as frustrated and agitated as he does after a day in the studio writing and recording, and the purpose photoshoots give him - to see something produced from nothing, to get a step closer to a finished product and new promo - always buoys him up for a few days and reignites Louis’ often waning passion. 

While Louis is out, Harry flourishes. Every door in the house is open, every window thrown wide, music plays throughout the entire home sound system, and Harry floats from room to room directing his own mental ballet. He sings along to songs he doesn’t know, dips into Louis’ Spotify playlists like a magpie, taking the odd song he’s drawn to for his own. He butters toast at the kitchen counter and eats it standing up. He lights every candle at once, the smells mingling with the help of the breeze and creating a sickly musk. 

However loud he manages to make the house himself, it’s still _ quiet _ in a way he can never be with Louis. Or with anyone. Even when he and Louis are in separate rooms, one of them in the lounge watching a film and one of them in the bedroom reading, it’s not the same as the total peace of having the whole house to himself. The knowledge that, for the moment, he’s truly alone. 

Sometimes, coming together at the end of an evening with a bottle of wine, too many blankets, and a TV programme neither of them are interested in is the closest Harry can get to the solitude he needs while being wrapped up in Louis’ arms. Both of them acknowledging that they don’t need to speak - there’s nothing to say - just existing in the same space, but independently, is enough.

Touring had always forced an unnatural closeness that had unintentionally continued into their life together, each of them clinging to the other through habit and fear of the unknown, and of loneliness, and of boredom. It had taken them a few months and many more blazing rows that shook the bedroom floor to acknowledge the space they both needed.

Harry begins the day with the best intentions possible. He’ll have the whole day, Louis leaving before it’s properly light. He’s had his eye on the ominous pile of clean laundry waiting for them in their bedroom. It had originally been a couple of shirts on their plush chair beside the wardrobe, but has since grown seemingly by itself into a teetering pile. He’d leave it for Louis, and honestly Louis would do it - he’d moan, but he’d do it - but in many ways Harry enjoys the repetitive task. He finds the folding, hanging, sorting, and folding again soothing, and that’s what he needs today, to be soothed. 

He makes it through two hours of folding and hanging before his mind begins to wander. He’s tried on a few of Louis’ sweaters he likes the look of, has Googled the pros and cons of vacuum storage, has watched YouTube videos on how best to braid short hair, and now he’s on edge. Not anxious, just jittery in a way that makes him want to do something with purpose. 

Louis isn’t helping. He’s been sending selfies since he climbed into the car his manager had sent to collect him, starting with a scruffy shot of his chin resting on his hand in the back seat, followed by a series of blurry topless snaps in a floor-length mirror as he tried to show off the black speckled trousers he’d be wearing “Looks like something you’d wear!” he’d said. The last photo Harry received showcased Louis’ shoulders and face. His beard looked full and auburn under the studio lights, his eyes rimmed with a dark pencil and smudged out. It’s not something Louis would ever really bother with at home unless Harry suggests practicing on one another. 

Harry’s eyes rest on Louis’ most recent photo. The sharp cut of his jaw, the hollows beneath his eyes accentuated by the eyeliner, the soft moistness of his lips where he’s had a thick lip balm applied. Harry hangs up the last of the shirts he has any intention of bothering with, and closes the wardrobe door.

Harry’s in the bathroom. The heated tiles are heaven beneath his feet and he slips out of his clothes, bundling them into a pile on the floor. He lights a candle, this month’s favourite album’s spinning on the record player on the landing, the door’s open to stop the room getting too warm and steamy but it’s no use when he’s in there for half an hour. He sets the shower just a touch off too hot, taking his time getting in and lathering up his hair. As the suds cascade down his body, his hands follow them, glancing over the curves of his chest, the firmness of his stomach, the swell of his hips and thighs, the softness between his legs. He shaves everywhere. Washing away the silky foam afterwards, he marvels at the smoothness. He cleans himself out and switches the shower off, his hands pruning and his brow sweaty. With a towel wrapped tightly around his head, he sits naked on the closed toilet seat - cold with condensation against his skin - and texts Louis to check when he’ll be home. 

  
Louis replies that he won’t be long, but is shattered. In the car on the way home, Louis calls, finding Harry lounging across the sofa with a plate of apple slices and a glass of wine. Louis’ voice is tired. He’s used to photoshoots where he’s lounging about, having his limbs arranged for him across a piano or around a guitar. Today they’d wanted drama, a dynamic shoot which had him putting in the work. He’d had to climb on top of a disused electrical box. His trousers had snagged. 

When he gets home, Louis is palpably exhausted. He’s achey, and doesn’t want to do anything beyond ordering a takeaway, having some beers, and passing out before 9pm. Unperturbed, Harry’s not subtle with his desire. As they wait for their takeaway to arrive, he slides his foot up Louis’ inseam from where he sits opposite him on the sofa. When his toes meet Louis’ soft dick inside his pajamas, their eyes meet. 

“Haz,” his voice is soft, apologetic. 

“It’s okay,” Harry doesn’t remove his foot, wiggling his toes into the soft flesh beneath the threadbare fabric.

Louis lets his head lol back against the sofa, swallowing visibly. His eyes slide closed, a mixture of exhaustion and arousal. 

“Tomorrow, I promise.”

“I could-” Harry begins. 

Their food arrives. 

-

In bed, Harry offers Louis a massage to ease out his stiffness but before he can reply, Louis is asleep, unable to keep his eyes open after a pizza and three beers. Harry pads to the bathroom, brushing his hair and cleaning his hands thoroughly, scrubbing the soapy lather in his palms to get beneath his nails. When he lowers himself into bed, Louis is snoring loudly. Harry nudges him firmly with the side of his forearm and he turns over from his side where he’s slumped against the pillows onto his face, barely stirring but now quiet. 

Harry burrows down into bed getting comfortable, letting the freshly-laundered sheets slide over the smooth skin of his legs. Turning onto his side, he faces Louis’ sleeping form, his back to the window where he’s left the curtains slightly ajar. Harry doesn’t like the room to be pitch black. He’d never leave the bedside lamp on; Louis would lose it and he’d feel like a baby, but when the moon is full, the direction of their house lets the stark light flood their bedroom. The cold blue of it washes over Louis’ skin and leaves him looking paler than ever, no trace of his perennial tan. 

Louis’ only wearing boxers, a looser pair than he’d probably wear in the day when he likes everything to be held tightly in place. As the duvet rests on Louis’ waist, Harry can see nothing of the fabric below and can convince himself Louis is beside him in nothing at all, just moonbrushed skin waiting to be touched. 

Now he’s comfortable, Louis’s arms are lifted above him, one laid across the pillow and one beneath his head. He’ll get cramp soon. Either wake up with it or sleep through it only to wake up later with his arm still asleep. In his moonlit silhouette, the stretch in his arm pops his bicep, opens his chest. Louis didn’t shower before bed - prefers to have them in the morning - and he smells like a mixture of aftershave, deodorant, hairspray and sweat. 

Harry feels himself getting hard. Runs a hand over himself and shivers when the smoothness still comes as a surprise. If Louis were awake he’d laugh at Harry for his desperation. And for the predatory glare he’s giving Louis’ body. But he’s fast asleep. 

Harry brushes his chest, his nipples pebbling beneath his fingers, he’s almost fully hard now. He wraps a loose hand around his dick, still dry, but soft and velvety as he slides his foreskin tentatively, feeling himself filling out. He shucks the duvet from on top of him. He doesn’t want to rustle the sheets any more than he needs to. 

He takes a moment. Lets his hand fall from his dick. Glances down at his body, illuminated by the moonlight. The points of him are highlighted into focus, his erection, his firm nipples, the ends of his toes. He pushes Louis, just lightly, on his arm to see if he stirs. He doesn’t. 

“Love you, Lou,” he says, firm but quiet in the silence. Still nothing. 

  
-  
  
  
Keeping his movements to a minimum, he reaches into the bedside cabinet, moving a scarf to one side, and pulls out his vibrator. It’s black, matte, and firm to the touch while still being soft and comfortable. It’s shaped almost like a hook, with a small button at the flared end to switch the vibrations on and off, and a second button beneath to cycle through the functions. It’s not one he really uses with Louis that often. It’s a little plain, a little boring. But it’s his favourite toy for fast wanks in bed.

When he’d first got into bed with Louis, he’d been tired. Groggy. He’d barely eaten any of his takeaway but drank two beers and he’d been feeling heavy and off. In the few moments that he’s been laid beside Louis’ sleeping form, he’s recouped. He could easily fall asleep if he tried. But he doesn’t want to, he can’t now. He fully intends to have _ something _up his arse before he falls asleep, even if it won’t be Louis. 

He toys with the vibrator in his hands, passing it from one to the other and then back again before gliding his fingers along the soft silicone shaft. He glances back over to Louis and finds his mouth has fallen open slightly, the sound of his heavy breathing audible over the thrum of Harry’s heart in his ears. His face is shrouded by darkness but Harry can see the soft wetness of Louis’ mouth. Can imagine the feeling of it on his skin. His mind’s made up. 

Reaching back into his bedside table drawer, he finds the pump bottle of lube he has in there and draws it out, squirting a couple of pumps into the cup of his fingers. Laying the vibrator down beside him, he shuffles down the bed far enough that he’s able to part his legs and reach between them to dampen himself. Sometimes when he slicks himself up it can be cold and shocking, but he’s hungry for it now and the chill of the liquid soothes his heated skin. 

Taking a deep steady breath as quietly as he can manage, he presses his index finger inside himself gently. He’s quickly comfortable with the stretch and removes his finger, stretching across himself to apply an extra squirt of lube to the vibrator. Now the moment’s upon him, he’s not sure if he’ll even bother turning it on. He’s never done this before. Not like this. Sometimes, just the feeling of something sturdy and insistent against his prostate is more than enough while he’s got his hand around himself, so it’s not like he _ minds _. 

The second he feels ready, he presses the vibrator into himself. It’s thick and unyielding. Blunt and hard against the ring of resistance before he takes a deep breath and presses in further. The shape of it sees it swallowed up in seconds, barely giving him the chance to acclimatise to the intrusion before it’s fully lodged in his body, unable to move, anchoring him in place. He chances a glance over at Louis as he feels his body adjust. Louis has always run hot. Beneath the bed sheets at night he’s like a furnace, and his skin’s beginning to shimmer with a sheen of sweat as sleeps.

Harry cups his balls gently, running a dry finger across the skin there, eager to progress to the main event but reluctant to rush and waste the opportunity he’s created for himself. Seeing Louis beside him, splayed out, unaware, unguarded, ignites a furious ache inside him. In his stomach, his legs, burning down to the tips of his toes. 

He’s frustratingly hard and there’s only so long he can completely neglect his dick. Once he’s taken himself in his hand, the combined pressure of the vibrator, still unmoving, against his prostate and the tightness of his hand - dry but eased immensely by the slick precum coating the head of his dick - he feels himself soaring to orgasm faster than imagined. He’s barely moving, his hand completely still, and still he feels dizzy and hot with it. He’s been teasing himself mentally with the promise of release all day, and now he’s free to let go, it’s upon him too quickly. 

As he fights to relax his muscles and calm down, he realises he can’t, he’s too far gone. He begins to tense, his body clenching involuntarily. Every tightening inside him causes the vibrator to bear down further still on his engorged prostate. He’s sweating beneath his arms and his head’s snapped against the pillow, thrashing silently from side to side, his entire body taut. His hand’s tight, and firm, and just wet enough to ease the slide as he grasps his dick, thrusting into the space he’s made. And he’s about to shout, knows himself well enough. He’s never been one to come quietly. 

It takes every ounce self-control he has, but before it’s over too soon, he forces his hand away from himself. His favourite orgasms are never those he rushes. Never the ones where he gives himself cramp, and his hand’s sore and his body’s wracked with jumpy aftershocks, where he can barely ease his toy of choice from inside himself without a jolt of oversensitive pain. He far prefers to be unwound and loose afterwards. So sleepy that he has to remind himself to clean up. Sometimes doesn’t. Sometimes falls to sleep with his vibrator beside him. Sometimes inside him. 

Once he’s really had the chance to calm down, managed to get on top of the full-body spasms, he takes hold of his dick again, the slide tackier than before now that his precum’s had a chance to dry along his shaft. He brings his hand to his mouth, spits in his palm, and uses the new lubrication to ease the slide. He forces himself to unclench, lets his shoulders drop into the pillow beneath him, relaxes his hole and begins rocking down against the vibrator purposely, rhythmically, firmly. 

As he gets closer, he looks over at Louis again, studying him frantically as Harry shudders. He allows himself to indulge in the fanciful fantasies he conjurs when it’s just him and his mind’s eye. Pleading with Louis to fuck his throat in the back of their taxi on the way to the studio, stepping from the car with cum on his face and his erection escaping his waistband. Louis fucking him into the wall in the kitchen corridor of their favourite restaurant while obliging staff politely squeeze by with trays of food. Louis bringing his friends from Donny around to their house and inviting them all to squeeze their way into Harry at once, giving him the chance to show just how good he can be. Just how _ accommodating _ he can be. 

He’s desperate. Desperate and not thinking straight, willing to take risks he shouldn't. Before he comes, as he’s just climbing the final few steps before plunging over the brink into oblivion, he frantically reaches down between his legs and firmly presses the power button, determined to feel as much pleasure as is available to him. The vibrator churns to life inside him, aggressive and firm against his now aching prostate. He _ wants _ to be quiet. He does. But he can’t. He groans. 

“What’re you…?” Louis opens one eye wearily beside him. 

Harry yelps, curling in on himself, his entire body flushing with searing heat, inescapable embarrassment and consuming arousal. He thinks he might cry. He reaches between his legs to turn the vibrator off. 

“Are you wanking?” Louis has both eyes open now, a look of suspicion and amusement on his sleepy face. 

“I was!” Harry’s loud and defensive. Caught out. 

“Don’t stop on my account.” Louis scoots up the bed until he’s sitting back against the pillows, wiping his eyes, brushing his fringe from his face. 

“Don’t be daft,” Harry can barely look him in the eye. 

“I said don’t stop. Not for me.” Louis adjusts himself to get comfortable, leaning down on one elbow to touch between Harry’s legs. Harry had thought Louis was hot in sleep, but against Harry’s overheated skin, Louis’ fingers are blocks of ice. He presses the power button. 

Harry's body surges. He’d allowed himself to retreat from the precipice once his orgasm had been stolen from his grasp. As the vibrator whirrs back to life Harry snaps backwards as though in pain, his body almost convulsing in sensitivity. He needs to come. He’s going to come. It’s just a question of when. 

“You said before. If I couldn’t sleep,” Harry pleads. “You said I could.” His hands are fisted in the bed sheets below him, the cotton too thin against the mattress to get any real purchase and his hands are scrabbling. 

“Didn’t expect you to fucking take me up on it. Didn’t expect all this,” Louis’ voice is gruff.

“I’m not far off,” Harry nods downwards, his arms rigid as he holds himself as still as he can manage. 

“If you’re horny, you go on, don’t let me stop you.” There’s a glint in Louis’ eye when he speaks. An assertiveness to his voice that doesn’t come naturally, but one that sets Harry on fire.

“I don’t need it,” Harry means the vibrator. He’s thrashing from side to side, his head forcing its way into the pillow below him, desperate for friction. 

Louis raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “That’s a shame,” he reaches back down again, all the while keeping firm eye contact with Harry. Louis' carefully avoiding touching Harry’s skin any more than is necessary. He’s beside Harry, but he’s not with him. He’s not joining in, this isn’t the two of them getting Harry off together. This is Harry with an audience. Louis’ fingers make contact with the vibrator and he presses the power button again to raise the function. Harry visibly jolts. 

“Fuck, Lou. I’m sorry,” he’s still not touching his dick. 

“For what? No need to be sorry. Not to me.” Louis is watching him. He couldn’t look less interested, but the visible hardness in his boxers exposes his arousal. 

“I am,” Harry offers.

Louis increases the function again, this time taking his hand back afterwards and sitting back up in bed, his back resting against the pillows and his legs crossed in front of him. Harry continues to thrash against the bed, his fingers cramping where they hold the bedsheets, his forehead sweaty and his bottom lip white between the vice of his teeth. 

“Turn it up again,” Louis instructs. 

Harry doesn’t respond, instead grinding his arse into the bed repeatedly to work up to a rhythm alongside the vibrator’s incessant stimulation to finally bring himself off. 

“Haz,” Louis’ voice is firm. 

“I don’t need it,” Harry repeats, his eyes closed as he attempts to concentrate his efforts.

Louis extends his hand, placing it on Harry’s quivering stomach to get his attention. Harry’s eyes snap open, meeting Louis’ as he speaks. “I don’t care, Harry. Turn it up, I want to watch your dick bounce.” 

Harry wails. He can _ just _about manage the stimulation he’s currently dealing with, but if Louis wants him to take more and deal with his filth, he’ll combust. 

“You know your word?” Louis asks

Harry reels. He’s useless now and he needs it, he needs the direction. Around him the room’s swimming in and out of focus, one moment bright and backlit by the moon, and the next the room’s gone, and it’s just the two of them in an empty expanse. As carefully as he can, Harry nods. “Kitten.” 

“Now turn it up for me,” and apparently that’s enough. 

“How many?” 

Louis pretends to think. “Three more steps.” 

Unfurling his fingers, Harry increases the speed as requested. He groans loudly, his dick springing up from where it lays flushed and wet on his tense stomach as he clenches around the hum of the vibrator. Louis smirks. In the silent house Harry’s moans are deafening. “Louis, I’m going to..” 

“Right now?” Louis mocks.

“I need to touch. I need you to touch me.” The tendons in Harry’s arms are drawn white and thick beneath his skin as he holds himself back.

“Is that what you want?”

“I fucking need it.” Harry’s face is a picture of desperation and vulnerability.

Louis reaches out from where he’s sitting crossed legged and wraps one small hand around Harry’s dick. It’s clear to Harry he’s going to offer him nothing more than the bare minimum, and with his shoulders pressed into the bed beneath him, and his heels grounding him, he thrusts up into the tightness of Louis’ fist, barely making it a minute before he’s spilling across the warm skin of Louis' hand.

Harry’s sensitive within seconds. Electricity pulsing through his body and it’s too much. He’s bucking his hips and it’s too fucking much. Unfisting his hands, he reaches between his legs to turn the vibrator off but Louis' hand catches him, grabs his wrist. 

He meets Louis’ eyes, desperation in his own. Louis shakes his head.

“Word?” Louis reiterates. 

“Kitten,” Harry pants.

“Lay back down.” 

“It’s fucking torture Lou.” His hips jerk and his dick’s still leaking but he’s_ done _ and it’s far too much. “I can’t, I can’t lay still.” Harry’s stuck between shouting and hysterical laughter, being tickled with sensitivity.

“But you wanted it so badly, Haz. You were so desperate. You couldn’t wait.” 

Louis reaches out, recapturing Harry’s dick in his cum-wet hand. The cum has begun to cool and feels icy against Harry’s searing skin. 

Instantly, Harry tries to wrench away from Louis. He’s sore now and the sensation against his prostate was already unbearable but now Louis’ touching him _ there _and he can’t stand it. He gasping for breath and he’s on fire and he’s lost in it. 

“You were so desperate, H,” Louis repeats. His expression’s calm but he’s visibly sweaty and there’s a wide patch of darkened fabric above the head of his dick in his boxers. His lip catches between his teeth, his jaw sets. He reaches out. 

With the hand that’s not wrapped around Harry’s aching shaft, Louis rests his palm across the head of Harry’s dick. Harry screams while leaking a surge of precum. Louis begins to gently polish the raw skin of the head of Harry’s dick. Harry’s wailing, unabashed and unashamed, unable to concentrate on anything but the electric agony between his legs. 

“Louis, please, no. Stop.” He’s thrashing on the bed, almost unseating Louis. His arms are failing around him, his hands scrambling down Louis’ side. His heels making echoing thrums against the mattress as he kicks his legs. 

“Haz,” Louis’ voice is soft and Harry recognises it for what it is, a gentle reminder that he’s not going to stop, not if Harry doesn’t use his word. 

“God Louis, it’s so fucking,” he makes to escape Louis’ hands, to shift up the bed far enough to dislodge the vibrator, “sensitive.” He drags a breath, “I can’t take anymore, I can’t!” He’s shouting now, his voice hoarse. 

“One more,” Harry knows what Louis wants.

“No chance,” his voice is barely more than a whisper as he groans, tries to rearrange himself, get his knee under Louis’ arm and get some relief from his insistent stimulation. 

“I want one more.”

“Stop,” Harry squirms again, moaning sadly, but he can feel heat coursing up through his stomach, his balls are tight and his arse is thrumming with pressure. 

“You’re so fucking good,” Louis ceases rubbing the dry skin of his palm across the head of Harry’s dick and focuses on the hand that’s holding his dick in place. He begins jacking it firmly, steadily, with intent. 

He’s panting, beyond any pleasure he can imagine. He comes a second time with a cry. He’s delirious with it and his mouth falls open in a glorious shout. Harry’s barely out of the aftershocks before Louis is gently easing out his vibrator before shutting it off and setting it to one side. He reaches into his own bedside table drawer and extracts a dog-eared packet of baby wipes, taking one out quickly. Louis runs the wipe gently over Harry’s used dick, touching him as lightly as possible before wiping over his crotch and stomach. 

Harry’s entire body is thrumming. He feels blurry at the edges with sensation, like his skin’s statically charged and Louis is his point of contact. He’s not concerned with his dick. The deep satisfaction he’s feeling goes far beyond it, the glow of joy reaching the ends of his fingers and toes. He’s spread wide and vulnerable on the bed, his stomach now clean, the rest of his body and hair caked in sweat. His cheeks are ruddy with tears and he can’t stop smiling. 

Without pause, Louis scoops him into the warmth of his arms, cradling Harry’s head against his chest. Louis smells sharp and his skin’s feverish but Harry holds him as tightly as he can, wraps his arms around him as far as they’ll stretch. Louis strokes Harry’s damp fringe, brushing it behind his ear 

“Love you, H,” Louis whispers. 

“Love you,” Harry’s breath is hot and wet against Louis’ skin as he begins to fall asleep. 

“Too far?”

“I could’ve killed you five minutes ago,” he speaks through a yawn. “Now, I couldn’t love you more.” His voice is far away. 

“Sleepy?”

“Shattered.”

Louis lays Harry down, gently extracting his arm from beneath him. He goes to lift himself out of bed, picking up the dirty baby wipe and vibrator on his way.

“Am I okay taking this through to the loo…?” he asks, leaning against the bathroom door with one shoulder and looking back to Harry. 

Harry’s eyes are closed, his eyelids resting thin.

“Hmm?”

“Didn’t know if you’d want another sneaky round before I wake up,” Louis cackles. 

“Prick,” Harry mumbles, smiling, his eyes still closed to the world.

“Slag.” 

Harry burrows into Louis’ now vacant pillow, pulls the discarded duvet over himself and does his best to hold onto consciousness until Louis has slipped in beside him, nuzzling into his matted hair, letting sleep take them both. 


End file.
